Chapter 1

Jemima Lawrents

A/N: This is my first fic that's not in imitation of Ellery Queen. I think I've been working on this chapter since maybe the winter of 2004/05 during the January thaw, but I'm not sure—I found it yesterday when I was helping Mum clean house. Oh, yeah, might turn out to be a short ficlet at the rate it's going. Let me know how you like it!


"Wow, this place is so gorgeous!" Nancy Drew exclaimed.

"Tell me about it," her good friend, George Fayne, said, getting out of their car. "And this is just a place we chose to stop at to get directions to the Moorland Ski Resort!"

Two dogs, one a black Siberian Husky and the other an Australian Shepherd who looked to be about 14 or 15 and walked with what definitely seemed to be arthritis ("Poor guy," Nancy remarked), came around the corner of a barn to greet the girls. The Husky was wagging its tail like crazy and Nancy judged it was probably a year old.

"Orson, Meg!" a woman's voice yelled angrily. A young girl came around the barn, taking the same path as Orson and Meg had. The girl, who was followed by a honey-coloured bantam chicken, stopped when she saw Nancy and George. The chicken took the opportunity to run ahead; the girl let out a short burst of air in exasperation and hurried after her, saying in the same voice they'd heard earlier, "Honey, get back here!"

Nancy and George watched in amusement as the girl scurried after the chicken and finally, grabbing her by the tail feathers, cuddled it in her arms so the wings were pinned down.

"Sorry about that," the girl said, breathing easily as she approached Nancy and George. "Honey here, she likes to escape. But I don't like letting the chickens out when the fields are all flooded like this. Can I help you with anything?"

George nodded. "You know the way to the Moorland Ski Resort, by any chance?"

The girl shook her head. "Sorry, no. My folks took me there once when I was eight or nine, before they died. I only remember standing at the ski rental in the main building and looking out at the ski slopes." She gave a wry smile; Honey squawked and beat her wings furiously, but the girl pinned them back down. "Why do you ask?"

"We're competitors in the Winter Triathlon there," Nancy explained.

"Oh, you're competing there, too?" the girl asked excitedly. "So'm I. My name's Jemima Lawrents, by the way."

"I'm Nancy Drew," Nancy said; "and this is my friend, George Fayne."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Jemima looked at the sun, which was nearing its zenith. "What time does the competition start?" she asked.

"One-fifteen," George told her.

"And it's twelve-thirty now!" Jemima said in a panicked voice, turning back toward the barn. "Orson! Meg!" The Siberian Husky bounded across the driveway to Jemima, and the Aussie lumbered behind. "Sorry I wasn't much help!" Jemima called back. "See you there!"

As Nancy drove back up the long driveway to the deserted country road, George remarked, "Odd sort of competitor, isn't she?"

Nancy nodded, and spotted a lime green Volkswagen in a turnabout off to one side of the driveway. "Looks like Jemima Lawrents wasn't kidding us," she said, pointing out the Volkswagen to George. She could see skis leaning against the back left window.

"Where's her canoe?" George said as they made a right turn that led immediately to a bridge.

"That's Hill River right there," Nancy said, motioning with her head to the river that ran under the bridge. "Wilson Creek, I think, is back there, toward Miller's Point."

"Jem wouldn't even have to drive to the starting point, like we would. All she'd have to do is canoe to it," George said sourly. "And I could have sworn she was only about ten or eleven, but she can't be that, because the rules say you have to be seventeen or older, right?"

Nancy nodded vaguely; she was too distracted at the moment to reply as icy water was creating rapids across the roadway.


"The website said that Hill River is ten to fifteen feet at the best of times!" Joe Hardy complained as his brother, Frank, slowed the van down to navigate through the water and ice covering the road. "What do you reckon it is now, thirty feet?"

Frank swerved to the right as another car passed them going the opposite direction. "I don't know. Do you have any idea at all as to where we are?" he asked exasperatedly. "I don't think I've ever been this way before."

Joe shrugged. "We went through Miller's Point, I think it was, a few miles back. Hey, you just passed a driveway back there; let's stop and ask directions. These maps we got off the Web aren't the greatest."

Frank carefully executed a 3-point turn after he got the van out of the water that was across the road, then went back to the driveway and turned into it.

Halfway down was a lime green Volkswagen. A young girl, probably no more than eleven at the most, was brushing snow off the windshield. Frank stopped the van and Joe rolled down his window.

"Excuse me, you know where the Moorland Ski Resort is?" Joe called.

The girl paused. "Are you competitors, too?"

Frank nodded. "We got lost," he admitted sheepishly.

"That seems to be the problem of the day, doesn't it?" the girl grinned. "I'm Jemima Lawrents, by the way, and speaking of ways, you're trespassing on private property."

"Your folks own all this?" Joe asked.

"Used to. All except the trailer, but I'm trying to buy that, too, except the guy doesn't seem to want to sell." She finished brushing off the car, and Joe could see cross-country skis in the back. "Who are you guys, anyway?"

"I'm Joe Hardy and he's Frank."

"Well, Mr. Hardy, see you at the finish line," Jemima said briskly. "And watch out for the high water here. It likes to tip over canoes if there're branches in the way."


"Whew! Finally made it!" Frank said as he and Joe got out of their van at the Moorland Ski Resort. Behind them, Jemima Lawrents was pulling into a space.

The Ski Resort was closed to the general public for the first part of the Triathlon, which involved skiing, snowshoeing, and canoeing. Frank and Joe struggled through new snow up to their knees ("You need snowshoes just to get to the lodge!" Joe complained) to the lodge where the competitors were to gather for the first leg of the race: Skiing cross-country to Moorland.

As Frank and Joe checked in, Jemima Lawrents hurried past them to an assistant's desk. "Sorry I'm late," she apologised breathlessly. "Had last minute stuff I needed to get done. Like people needing directions." (She glared at Frank and Joe.)

"Well, you're on time," said the assistant, whose nameplate read Lisa. "The last of the competitors are here, I thing, so we should be starting any moment. Jemima nodded and rushed off.

"Okay, can I have your attention please?" a woman asked a few minutes later. She was standing on a makeshift stage of an old plywood platform and speaking through a megaphone. "I'm Lorna Johnson. The Winter Triathlon will begin in a few moments, but first let me explain a few things to you.

"Owing to a major flood in the area, the canoeing will be changed from Hill River over to Wilson Creek, at the point where the creek currently begins. Direction will be given to you upon your completion of the snowshoeing portion of the event.

"If you do not have cross-country skies, please see our ski manager, Lisa. This portion of the race will be three miles cross-country to Miller's Point; you will then enter immediately into the snowshoeing portion of the race and come back to Moorland along a different route. All racers must be back before…let's say midnight tonight.

"Tomorrow we will have the canoeing on Wilson Creek. This will run to the other side of Bayport—that's seven miles by road, folks.

"Any questions?...Okay, I believe we are ready to roll. The ski route is marked with red triangles; the snowshoe route is marked with yellow triangles. The race begins at the tope of the slope you see out this window." Ms. Johnson motioned to the window behind her. "Oh, one other thing," she said. "We assumed that the majority of you know how to get uphill on cross-country skies. Therefore, at one-thirty, you will be left to your own devices. This means that at one-thirty, when the race starts unofficially, you will not have the use of ski lifts, tow ropes, or anything else to aide you except your skis and your brains. And no hugging the tree line!" She stepped down off the makeshift stage and disappeared into the crowd of competitors.

"Frank and Joe Hardy!" exclaimed a familiar voice next to them.

"Nancy, George! You're competing too, right?" Frank asked.

Nancy nodded. "But we got lost on the way here and had to ask directions. The girl was a little on the weird side—Jemima Lawrents, her name was. She said she didn't know the way, but I think she was lying."

"We met her through the same circumstances as you guys did," Joe said dryly. "C'mon, let's go get our stuff."


When Frank and Joe arrived at the bottom of the hill, Jemima Lawrents had already strapped on her skis and was eying it. "Piece of cake," she muttered, smiling. "I suppose you've competed in this sort of thing before, too, right?" she asked, directing this last comment toward Frank and Joe.

Joe was leaning on his ski poles for support as he fastened his skis; beside him, Frank was struggling with a particularly stubborn binding. Neither could quite read the expression on Jem's face—was it excitement, or something else?

"Hey, Joe, can you help me with this binding?" Frank asked. Joe bent down and fastened the stubborn binding with about as much difficulty as Frank had had.

"If you'd waited, your friends could have helped you," Jemima said.

"What friends?" Frank asked, taking up his poles.

"The strawberry blonde one you seem so fond of," Jemima replied, and started off.

"Oh, she means Nancy," Joe said as Nancy and George skied over to them. He started off sideways up the slope. "You coming, Frank?" he called back. Jemima, to his surprise, was already well on her way up the hill, and more contestants were starting up as well.

"You bet," Frank said, starting after Joe. "I wouldn't miss this for the world!"


Following Jemima's lead wasn't easy. It became especially difficult for Frank when a loud snap startled him and for support he accidentally put his ski on a patch of ice Joe had just told him to avoid. After that, all Frank could see was a blur of snow and clouds as he tumbled down the steep slope.